Guilt
by HollidayMourner
Summary: Sequel to "Shrine." When England doesn't answer America's calls, America goes to England's house with the intention of throwing a fit. What really happens is unexpected, but not unwelcome. USUK. Brother love. Slight cursing. America the hero.


**A/N: So this is the sequel to my story "Shrine." I was debating on whether or not to write a sequel, and then I figured that it wouldn't hurt to write something else to continue the story. I'm not too fond of stories that don't have a happy ending, and "Shrine" definitely did **_**not**_** have one of those****. So, here's a happy ending. :) I hope you enjoy the story, and don't forget to review and favorite :)**

America usually wouldn't have cared what kind of trouble England got into. It was always something with France and was never anything serious, so he usually never worried. But today, America felt uneasy when England didn't answer his calls or reply to America's numerous texts. If England was in trouble with France, the other nation would have sent back a reply trying to pretend to be England (and failing) or would have answered the phone and tried to convince America to buy England from him. None of that had happened like America had expected it to, and he'd been calling and texting England for three hours. France never played games for that long without doing anything.

If only England would answer his damned phone, America could stop worrying like this.

America paced back and forth in his living room, his cell phone clutched tightly in his hand. His fingers were bone white around the small device, and it took every ounce of control he had not to crush it. If he crushed his phone, there'd be no way for him to get into contact with England when the Brit finally decided to stop being an ass (because, obviously, if it wasn't France holding him hostage, it was England being a douchbag and not talking to America for some God forsaken reason).

Growling, America dialed England's phone again, leaning against the kitchen door and tapping his foot. The phone went right to voicemail. Yelling in frustration, America threw his phone. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me, Arthur!? You can take the time to turn your phone off, but you can't text or call me back?" America slammed his fist against the wall, his chest heaving. _That's it_, he decided. _Whatever his problem is, I'm going to go fix it for him. Since he can't be a man and fix it himself._

Grumbling at the throbbing pain in his hand and at England himself, America stalked over to the coat rack. Snatching his coat from a hook, he exited the house, locking and slamming the door behind him.

"Stupid England and his stupid pre-teen girl hormones..." America grumbled to himself on his way to England's place. "Why can't you be like everyone else and argue and fight with me instead of worrying me and pissing me off? Stupid idiot Brit." America's mood darkened as he walked, and his anger rose at the older, British nation. _He always scolded me for acting like this, and he turns around and does it himself? Such a fucking hypocrite!_

Through America's haze of anger, he spotted England's house. Seeing the place after so many years brought on an aching pain in his chest, but he ignored it, using his anger to push the other feelings out of his mind. He wouldn't let Memory Lane come creeping up on him when he was on a mission. Whether it was a noble mission or not, it was still a mission, and America's favorite missions always required only one emotion: anger. He had plenty of anger to feed the flames.

With a smoldering heat in his chest and head, America stomped up England's steps, glaring at the closed door before raising his hand and pounding on the wood. The door shook beneath his fist at first, eventually giving way with the crash of splintering wood beneath the power of his knocks. Stepping inside the house, America briefly scanned the rooms he could see.

The curtains were all drawn, blocking any light from entering the house. But America didn't need light - he could hear soft whimpers coming from a room upstairs.

Assuming the whimpers were because England had heard the door busting open and was terrified of America's wrath, America didn't think anything of it. Instead, he marched up the stairs, his heavy footfalls echoing through the empty and almost-silent house. The whimpers grew louder and eventually transformed into sobs, but America wasn't paying much attention as he reached the second floor.

The hallway brought memories bubbling to the surface of America's mind, but he shoved them back down with a grunt. He wouldn't let anything get in the way of his anger, his mission. He _needed_ to yell and throw a tantrum (and possibly throw England against the wall as well, but if that happened it would be nothing more than a bonus).

America felt a tug in his chest, as if his heart wanted something and was trying to reach it. Ignoring the feeling, America followed the soft cries down the hallway. He stopped outside the last door on the left.

There was suddenly a lump in his throat, and America could feel the anger trickling out of him as he remembered happier moments of his life. He forced himself to remember the worst memories he had of the Englishman, not willing to give up his anger for sentimentality or regret.

The crying was coming from inside the room, still as soft as down, and America clenched his teeth to ready himself for what was inside.

When America stepped into the room, what he saw didn't register. The anger that had been boiling inside him since that morning had found it's target, and words spewed out before America could think about them. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, England? Were you trying to piss me off? Because it fucking worked! _What the_ _hell_ _is your_ \- " America stopped, finally noticing through his haze of emotion the curled-up and shaking form in the middle of the floor.

America's anger drained out of him in an instant at seeing his former caretaker in such a forlorn position. His brain seemed to have stopped as he stood in the doorway of his old bedroom, staring down at the man he had looked up to - _still_ looked up to, but he'd rather spend an entire day at Russia's mercy than admit that.

England seemed not to realize America was there. He was still curled up on the floor, crying, his face buried in clothes that America had grown out of over a century ago. Something was pressed against England's chest, catching his tears so none of them landed on the rumpled pile of clothes serving as a pillow.

Curious, America shuffled over. His steps and movements were extra cautious, not wanting to startle England or his mood change completely and America suddenly be beat with whatever the older nation was holding. When America was at England's side, he sank to his knees and reached out for the golden frame that was clutched in England's hand.

A choking sob tore past England's lips as he jerked away from America's outstretched hand, bringing tears to the American's eyes. He didn't need to see what England was clutching like a lifeline - his reaction had confirmed what he feared.

The picture had been England's favorite, taken by surprise when young America had been so excited to see a flock of birds flying overhead. England had always wanted pictures of America, claiming that when he grew up and moved on to bigger and better things, the Brit would need reminders of the spoiled brat that America had been.

America leaned over so he was also laying on the floor, his heart wrenching and tearing in his chest. He reached out again and ran the tips of his fingers down England's arm, waiting for the other to jerk away from him again. The movement never came, but the older man trembled beneath America's touch. His cries had turned into soft whimpers again, but America could see the fight England was going through to keep his tears in.

"What's the matter England?" America asked, his voice soft.

England said nothing, only clutched the picture frame tighter to his chest.

America scooted closer, bringing his arms around England so that they enveloped him. He rested his forehead against England's temple, humming a lullaby. "Whatever happened England, you can tell me. I promise, I won't laugh or tease you or anything. I want to help. You're worrying me. Please tell me what's wrong." America's voice broke, and his arms tightened around England.

The whimpers subsided slowly. America waited until England was ready to speak to say anything else. He just laid there comfortably and held the Englishman until his body stopped shaking.

"I did an awful thing, Alfred," England whispered into America's chest. The use of America's human name startled him, but he didn't say anything. He just kept humming lullabies and holding England until he elaborated.

A few more moments of silence, and then England was ready to speak. He pulled back and loosened his grip on the frame. His eyes met America's, and the younger nation could see the pain and regret barely held in check. Tears sprung up in the corners or England's eyes, but he quickly blinked them away.

"I don't think I can live with myself any longer, knowing what I did to you and how much you hated me for it," England choked out, fighting every second to control his tears. He pulled back farther, still clutching the picture frame. "For all I know, you still hate me. God knows you've been acting like you do."

America felt as if he'd been slapped in the face. Does he still hate England for what he put him through? No. Did he hate him at the time? Of course he had, but he had still loved him. He was his brother, for goodness' sake. Nothing could make him hate England forever, no matter how bad the reason was. Had he been avoiding the older country as of late, though, and making it seem as if he hated him? It pained America to admit it, but England was right - America had been avoiding England. But the problem was, America had no idea why.

He was at a loss for words, mouth hanging open stupidly. England pulled back the rest of the way and sat up, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. He still had the picture frame clutched in his hands, but he wasn't clinging to it like he had been earlier.

"What are you doing here?" There wasn't a single hint of how not-in-control of himself England had been a few moments ago. His voice was calm, level, and despite his eyes being red and puffy, no tears were lingering in the corners of those deep green eyes. America felt almost as if he were being punished for coming here, but he shook that thought away quickly.

"Well, at first I was mad because you weren't answering me, and when you turned your phone off I guess I snapped and - " America began.

"I didn't turn it off. It died," England explained, his voice flat.

America sighed. "Well I didn't know that. But _anyway_, I was so mad I decided to come here and yell at you for ignoring me but when I got here and saw you like this, I couldn't stay mad anymore because you were so upset and something was wrong with you and something's _still_ wrong because I know whatever the problem was hasn't gone away yet, and you're not getting rid of me until you tell me what's wrong and let me fix it." America sucked in a breath, puffing out his chest and sitting up to face England.

Even with the both of them sitting down, America was still taller than England by a considerable amount. Not wanting England to have another reason to be upset, America slouched as much as he could to reduce the height difference between the two of them.

England looked down at the floor. "Why did you get so mad?" His voice was soft and sounded far away.

America dropped his voice as well and scooted closer to England. Their knees touched. "It hurt when you ignored me. It made me remember, and I didn't want to feel that way again, so I got angry at you for making me feel that way again..." By the time he was finished speaking, America's voice was barely audible. Him and England were so close, however, that the other nation had heard him clearly.

A pained expression crossed England's face, and America regretted his words almost immediately. He hadn't wanted to make England hurt again and feel bad, but he had been asked a question, so he gave an honest answer. America's heart clenched, and it seemed as if it had stopped beating as he waited for England to say something.

"That's not what I meant to do, Alfred, I promise you it's not." England's voice was soft, a hint of sadness staining his words. "I just... I couldn't bring myself to leave your old room. I couldn't bring myself to do anything with it, either. I found myself not wanting to live with the memory of you, but I couldn't bring myself to throw away your things because I _wanted_ to remember you. I couldn't even straighten up your room like I used to, because it broke my heart to be in here. It took me a little while, but I realized what I'd done was awful, and I never should have done that to you. I know now that I hurt you. I never meant for that to happen, Alfred, I was just scared of losing you. I didn't want to lose you, but I ended up pushing you away instead..." England's voice broke at the last words, and a fresh batch of tears streamed down his face.

With a cry of surprise, America rushed forward, enveloping England in his arms. He rocked the smaller nation gently, running his fingers through his hair and humming to him. England's frame shook violently in America's arms.

"I don't hate you," America promised. "I could never hate you. I forgave you a long time ago for what happened back then. It's history. It's in the past. I never meant to make you think that I hated you, England, I'm so sorry." Tears leaked from America's eyes, cutting paths through his skin.

England eventually calmed down again under the American's touch, but he didn't move to leave his embrace. Instead, he snuggled in against his chest and buried his face, breathing deep to embed the American's scent in his memory.

"For years..." England began, hesitantly. America waited patiently. "For years... I've had dreams about you when you were a child. They'd terrify me because I knew what they meant. They meant that I couldn't have those times back ever again. They meant that whatever was between us now would be what is always between us." England took a deep breath. "And then I'd have nightmares about the war... God, those dreams tore me apart. I always came in here to try and calm down, but being surrounded by the memory of you... It killed me. It was as if I could feel my heart being torn in half. But I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it." A sob tore through England's body, and America held him tighter. When a tear slipped from his eye again, America brought his thumb up and brushed it away.

America leaned down and kissed England's hair. "You don't have to worry about that anymore. You don't have to be afraid of being surrounded by your memories of me. You'll have the real deal right here with you through everything from now on, I swear to you. You've always had the real deal right here. You were just too absorbed in your Britishness to see it." America's attempt at brightening the Englishman's mood with his lame joke succeeded - England chuckled.

America planted another kiss on top of England's head. "I love you, Iggy, and don't you ever forget that," he murmured.

England snuggled against America's chest and smiled. "I love you too, you silly hero."

**A/N: And that's that. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Hooray for happy endings! :D Don't forget to drop me a review to let me know what you think :)**


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